artled at reveille to see five or six dogs
leap in at the open windows and run about the floor. Just awakened, we
hardly knew in the dim light what manner of wild beasts they might be.
Afterward, we heard that this was the custom in the family. A pet
porcupine in the house amused us very much. He was a grotesque little
creature, and very tame and affectionate, following the servant about
like a little dog, and fondling her feet. His quills had been drawn or
shed, but they were beginning to grow again, like pin-feathers.

In this quiet, kindly little post nothing seems ever to happen, but
the air is full of Indian rumors. A Gatling gun, pointed at the
universe, seemed to promise the enemy a sharp reception if a scare
ever came. This diabolical little mitrailleuse would not be pleasant
to look upon as it ground out grim death in such a matter-of-fact way.
A few days were very agreeably spent at Fetterman (of which the very
name tells of Indian murders), and there we found courteous, educated
men and gracious, lovely women. It was wonderful what elegant little
entertainments they managed to give us in this far-away outpost of
civilization.

On Saturday, July 18, we set out to return to Fort Laramie. The route
was the same, and nothing occurred to vary it save the little
incidents, not worth telling, which yet give the real charm to a
journey. Our party was made still larger by the addition of some
mounted traders and their train of wagons. It was always pleasant to
see them, for there are no such riders as upon the frontier, where
every one sits easily and perfectly, and the large boots and the
sombreros make every man a picture. Again we were on La Bonte at noon,
on Horseshoe at night. We begin to feel at home here, and it is truly
a place to like, with its many bird-voices and rushing breezes. We
encamp; the soldiers laugh and sing; a simple joke seems to go a great
way; one lassos another, and all roar when he misses. The steam of
cooking rises on the air: we feel again the charm of camp-life, and
our sleep is sweet in the night. Once more the morning red flashes
upon the sky, then changes to yellow and to gray. Clouds come over,
the roaring wind that always blows at Horseshoe scatters the limbs
from the burnt trees, but it will not rain. No such luck, but it will
be cool and pleasant for our journey. Passing by the ruins of Jack
Slade's ranch, the long curve of the Horseshoe, the bluffs and the
plains, we are once mo